


The sun turns traitor cold

by RampantAnnarchy (combustspontaneously)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: College AU, M/M, Pining, Snowed In, Thanksgiving, forced to share a bed, modern day AU, very mild angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 02:52:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2452010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/combustspontaneously/pseuds/RampantAnnarchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras, oblivious as ever, scowls. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s literally freezing – you’d die before morning. We can share.”</p><p>“No,” Grantaire says, desperation seeping into his voice. He has to make him understand. The blanket’s so small they’d have to sleep in the same bed, pressed into such small quarters Grantaire might just explode. “No, we really can’t.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The sun turns traitor cold

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my fav/sort-of-beta. Title from Joni Mitchell's 'Urge for Going.'

Grantaire doesn’t go home for the holidays. He watches, bottle dangling from his fingers, as cars come and go all morning and all day, winces when moms squeal over their sons’ growth spurts, and tries not to be too relieved when his roommate decides to go back to New York last minute. It’s not that he doesn’t like Montparnasse, he just hates how he has this terrible habit of having really loud sex with multiple people while Grantaire is still in the room. It happens more than you’d think, which is to say, several times per week.

So after helping Montparnasse pack for several hours (‘listen, you don’t need five hair dryers –’ ‘don’t tell me what I do and do not need, Grantaire, you don’t _understand_ ’) and waving him goodbye as he jets off in his stupidly decadent BMW, he finally gets the room to himself.

And promptly wishes he could actually take advantage of it. Unfortunately, Grantaire’s bed has seen more beer stains than visitors in the last two years. Not that he hasn’t been trying diligently to change that. It just seems that any time he finds someone willing to fall into bed with him, Grantaire can’t bring himself to do it.

Life was so much easier before he met Enjolras.

He groans and stares up at the water stain on the ceiling, considering his options. He can either watch TV, try to finish some school work, drink himself silly, or try and find some frat boy with curly blond hair to kiss and just pretend, the way Eponine sometimes snaps at him to do when he pines too much in her presence.

He flips through the channels once half-heartedly and bears about thirty seconds of the weatherman droning on about an unprecedented incoming cold front before giving that up and wandering downstairs to seek out some alcohol. Bahorel on the first floor, bless his heart, can always be good for a bottle of gin hidden under his mattress, but when Grantaire gets there he finds that he’s nowhere to be found, and already likely left to go home for Thanksgiving. Grantaire tries not to be too put out by that.

Most people have gone home, it seems, as it is every year. A lot of the people here are rather wealthy after all. He can’t imagine many of them would want to stick around here in shitty dorm rooms with poor insulation when they’ve got mansions and non-ramen-esque food waiting for them at home. He thinks sullenly of the estate he knows Enjolras’ parents have tucked away somewhere and tries not to wish that Enjolras was the type to stay on campus throughout the breaks.

Determined not to spend the entirety of the break moping and pining over him, Grantaire grabs a thick coat from his room – because holy shit, that weatherman was not lying – and heads over to Ramsey hall. Musichetta’s likely still around, and if she doesn’t have beer at least he’ll have company.

He’s nearly there when he runs into someone – literally runs into them.

“Shit – sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head. Snow’s falling – not completely outrageous during this time, but still sort of odd. It must have to do with the cold front the guy was talking about.

“No problem, R,” Courfeyrac beams, and he startles. He barely recognized him all the layers. Courf’s grinning face is barely visible in between the ear muffs, heavy scarf, and hat.

“Too cold for you?” R teased, raising an eyebrow. Courfeyrac grew up on the West coast after all and – “Why haven’t you gone home yet?”

Courf shakes his head, the little pom-poms on his hat wobbling vigorously. “Too long of a commute for just three days. Besides,” he smirks slyly. “I wanted some time with Combeferre.”

Grantaire snorts. The two thirds of the holy trinity share an apartment slightly off campus, where they no doubt perform innumerable unthinkable acts. He’s so jealous.

“Of course,” he rolls his eyes. He gestures awkwardly to the building behind him. “Well, I’m gonna…”

“Oh yeah! Sorry,” Courfeyrac ducks his head and shuffles to the side, which R supposes is all that he’s able to do, considering the sheer number of snow pants he has sheathing each leg. If Courfeyrac continues at this rate, by Christmas they’ll have to roll him around from class to class. “Hey, wait – what’re your plans for tomorrow?”

He stops and turning back around, shrugging loosely. “Staying in my dorm room. Drinking. Watching Made-for-TV lifetime movies.” The usual.

Courfeyrac’s mouth twists into something two shades kinder than pity. “Hey, you should come over to our house instead.”

Grantaire opens his mouth to wave away the suggestion. Just because he shows up at their meetings from time to time doesn’t mean they’ll actually want him intruding on their holidays. Courfeyrac’s just being friendly as usual.

“No really, I insist,” Courfeyrac interrupts before he can say anything. “Please?” he bats his eyelashes at him, and Grantaire might have given in if the effect wasn’t ruined by Courfeyrac looking like a marshmallow come to life. “Some of the others are coming over? And there will be free food? And -”

“Okay.”

Courfeyrac’s face lights up. “Really?”

Grantaire snorts, already turning to walk away. “I’m a broke college student,” he laughs. “Free food will get you anything.”

Xx

He isn’t actually going to go. Well, he was. And then he wasn’t. And then he was again.

Grantaire, pathetically, considered and reconsidered the proposal all of Friday night and part of Thursday morning. Finally, crouching in the corner of his bed and sketching lazy doodles of a certain ring leader’s scowling face, he decides against it.

For real this time.

That is, until it hits noon and he’s hungry again. He’s totally prepared to submit himself to another packet of shrimp flavored ramen until he remembers that he’s going to be eating the exact same shit for the rest of the year, and honestly would it really hurt him to indulge just this once?

Before he can change his mind, he’s tossing the ramen packet back on his bed, tugging on paint-stained jeans and a relatively clean shirt and heading out the door. As an afterthought he grabs the unopened bottle of cheap wine Musichetta gave him last night before shutting the door in his face and resuming sex with her boyfriends, because it’s rude to show up empty handed (right?).

The trek to the apartment is cold and sucks. The snow piles up on the sidewalks and benches because the administration doesn’t bother hiring anyone to shovel it away now that the majority of the students have already gone home for the break. For a university that charges so much tuition you’d figure they could afford it.

Grantaire trudges his way through it, half of his face buried in a thick cashmere scarf (stolen from the depths of Montparnasse’s closet). He’s so fucking cold that he doesn’t even hesitate before knocking on Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s door. He stares at a decoration of a hand turkey slapped right over the peephole – Courf’s idea of decorating for the holidays, no doubt. There’s also a wreath around it, and upon closer inspection, Grantaire finds that it’s made of actual flowers and leaves. Jehan’s touch, of course.

The door swings open without warning, soft music, warm air, and the thick aroma of a cooking roast floating out with it. Grantaire’s heart stutters in his chest when he sees Enjolras, his face open and grinning and radiant and oh _god_ , he’s so fucked. But the grin drops into a bemused scowl when he sees Grantaire and his heart squeezes pathetically in his chest. He fights to keep the hurt off his face, averting his eyes anywhere but the disappointment in Enjolras’ eyes. “Expecting someone else, Apollo?” he tries for glib and barely manages to keep it light enough to be nonchalant, starving off the bitter edge. It’s nothing new, after all. “Artemis couldn’t make it. She sends her regards.”

Enjolras’ scowl darkens but before he has a chance to grind his heel into the barely beating pulp that is Grantaire’s pathetic heart, Courfeyrac comes bounding up behind him. “R! I’m so glad you can make it!” he enthuses warmly, shooing Enjolras back inside with a warning look that anyone but Enjolras would understand in the first place. “And you brought booze! Have I told you yet today that you’re my favorite?”

Grantaire just glares at him. “You didn’t tell me he was going to be here,” he hisses darkly underneath his breath, still trying to wrangle his heart into any sort of rhythm resembling normalcy.

Courfeyrac smiles sheepishly, hand coming up to tug at his hair. “Well, I did say people were coming. I just didn’t say _who_ , per se…”

Grantaire just scowls and crosses his arms over his chest, already regretting every life decision he’s ever made. He should have just gone to community college like he wanted.

Combeferre comes up behind him, smiling. “I’m glad you could make it,” he says so sincerely Grantaire nearly forgets the look on Enjolras’ face when he realized who was at the door. “Sorry about…” he flutters his hand in the general direction of Enjolras, who’s glaring at the football game that’s playing. Bahorel, Bossuet (likely kicked out of the kitchen), and Musichetta are sprawled out on the couch yelling out expletives at various players.

R waved his hand, pressing the bottle into Courfeyrac’s hands before Enjolras could come over and judge him for being in proximity of booze. “Don’t worry,” he says with a flash of teeth, wandering off towards the kitchens before they can pity him more than they already do. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but thankfully Enjolras has neither.”

Marius is burning the turkey when he gets there, but Cosette fishes it out of the oven with nothing but a fond smile, which honestly just shows that a saint she is. Feuilly and Joly are crowded in there too, making the mashed potatoes. They all look up and grin when they see R in the doorway, picking at the sleeve of his sweater and considering going back out there to get the wine after all. Cosette squeals when she sees him, throws an arm around his shoulders and kisses both cheeks. “I’m glad you made it!”

Joly and Feuilly, struggling over a can opener, look up at her greeting and grin in unison before greeting him as well, Joly coming over to hug him hello. Grantaire tries not to blush. He doesn’t see any of them often outside the school’s club, though not for a lack of them trying to get him to come with them to various events and bars. He tries to limit his interaction with Enjolras as much as possible, per Eponine’s demands. Going to debate club is his only indulgence, and what a masochistic indulgence it is.

He offers his help and is quickly set right to work filling various bowls with various corner store treats.

It appears that Thanksgiving will mostly consist of jelly beans and chips and dip, with mashed potatoes and a runty turkey as the only ‘real’ food staples, in true college tradition.

When they’ve all finished, the turkey salvaged and the mashed potatoes looking heavenly (and in a tub large enough that Gavroche could bathe in it, and what a dream that is), they all meander out into the living room to catch the last quarter of the game. Courfeyrac is tucked into Combefere’s lap, sprawled right over each other in the large armchair, with Enjolras splayed at their side, looking like the childhood friends they are. Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet are very much in the same situation, all three spilling into the others. He finds himself squeezed in between Joly and Bahorel on the couch, with Musichetta’s feet in his lap. Marius and Cosette are cuddling on the floor in front of them, her fingers carding gently through his hair.

The game is the 49er’s versus the Patriots and they’re split right down the middle between those who came here from the West Coast and the locals. Bahorel and Musichetta are talking up a shit storm over him, each of them groaning or cheering any time anything happens. Cosette, who has never stayed anywhere long enough to develop deep blooded loyalties, cheers for both sides, and Marius just looks very confused and pulls her aside to ask what’s happening every five or so minutes. Courfeyrac and Joly reenact the halftime show whenever commercial breaks are on and gets them all in stitches so they barely notice when the Patriots score a touchdown. Combeferre chips in here and then with a surprising arsenal of statistics, and even Enjolras gets in it a little bit – if you count complaining about organized sports as participating, which, he supposes, they will for Enjolras. He doesn’t even look too terribly offended when Grantaire dismisses his arguments almost entirely and when someone finally just yells at them to shut up for the last two minutes so they can watch in peace, he listens, which is a good sign, for Enjolras. The Patriots pull off a touchdown in the last thirty seconds and the house erupts into chaos. Naturally, Bousset bet on the losing side and just shrugs helplessly as he forks over the money. Later Grantaire catches Courfeyrac slipping it back into his wallet when he’s not looking though, and smiles.

“Alright, alright,” Combeferre says shepherding them all over to the dinner table. It’s a miracle really, that they have a table at all, let alone one that can sit so many people, but it’s Combeferre so it’s understandable.

They all get a healthy serving of mashed potatoes and a sliver of turkey, and everyone cheers when Courfeyrac breaks out a couple six packs and the wine bottle Grantaire brought. They’re all of legal age, but Enjolras still wrinkles his nose as Courfeyrac fills little plastic cups around the table.

Grantaire opens his mouth to tease him before snapping it shut again. _It’s a nice day_ , he thinks. He doesn’t want to risk ruining it.

When they toast and cheer to a good thanksgiving, Grantaire catches Enjolras’ eyes for a moment, deep and burning, before he has to make himself look away and catch his breath. He shoots back the wine in one gulp before going to pour himself another and when he looks at Enjolras again he’s daring him to say something.

He doesn’t.

Cosette, like a tiny Korean Cinderella, drags Marius out the door with her at four to go meet her father for their own little thanksgiving, and shortly after Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta follow looking a little too chummy for comfort. It’s a little bit of a relief, he can feel them all thinking, that they don’t all just start making out at the table. Bahorel and Courfeyrac break out Mario Party. They only have three controllers and Courf and Combeferre team up automatically, and Feuilly and Bahorel grab each other as well (they kick ass at the Wii together – it’s frightening). Enjolras meets his eyes over the last unclaimed remote. Grantaire bites his lip.

“It’s okay,” R says quietly with a rueful smile to the others. “I’ll just watch. I’m probably too tipsy anyway.”

It’s a shitty excuse; one, because they’ve all see him hold a profound and intelligible debate against a sober Enjolras while completely wasted, and two because drunk Mario Party is the _best_ Mario Party.

  To his surprise, it’s Enjolras himself who objects. He makes an impatient noise before grabbing R by the sleeve and dragging him over to the TV. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he rolls his eyes. “Do you want to be Toad or Princess Peach?”

They end up being Princess Peach because Courf and Combeferre take Toad before they can, the _bastards_ , but that’s okay because they win anyway.

“You _cheated_ ,” Courf wails two hours later. “I want a rematch!”

Enjolras snorts derisively. “It’s hardly cheating when I clearly have superior dice rolling skills.”

They play a rematch anyway though, even though Bahorel has to take Feuilly back home. Courf brings out the liquor again and they take a drink every time Bowser appears, which occurs more often than one might think, but perhaps not enough. By the time they finish the wine and demolish the second to last six pack, Courfeyrac is slurring his words and Grantaire’s fingers feel funny.

They play a mini-game where the players have to clean by shaking the controllers as fast as they can and if Grantaire stares a little too long at the way Enjolras’ looks doing it then so be it.

It’s late by the time they finally finish, Courfeyrac and Combeferre winning by just one star. They’re almost too tired and too wasted to gloat about it though, Courfeyrac jabbing a finger in their general direction and muttering victorious sounding gibberish.

Combeferre just rolls his eyes and smiles fondly before carting him off to get some water in him.

Grantaire lets the silence settle slowly around him like a fine layer of dust before he realizes that he’s been left alone with Enjolras. The thought strikes him like a lightning bolt and he suddenly feels a little more sober than he would like. Enjolras is spread out over the armchair, splayed with his limbs arranged messily around him.

He’s still gorgeous.

It’s extraordinarily unfair.

Grantaire just sucks in a breath and looks away.

“Why do you do that?”

Grantaire turns back around to look at Enjolras in surprise. “What?”

He just scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. “You always look away,” he clarifies, the slightest slurring in his voice the only indication of his intoxication, despite the fact that he drank more than Courfeyrac. “When you’re looking at me, I mean. Am I so displeasing to the eye?” There’s something almost sharp in the tone of his voice, as if he’s daring Grantaire to contradict him, to tell him that he’s dreamt about Enjolras almost every night since he first laid eyes on him, that he’s woken up every morning empty and lost and craving everything Enjolras will never give him.

“What do you want me to say?” Grantaire asks, and if his voice breaks at the end then it’s the liquor to blame and the liquor alone. “That looking at you hurts? That it’s like staring at the sun and expecting not to go blind?”

He doesn’t know what he expects Enjolras to do at these words, but he knows it’s not to take a sharp breath as if he’s just been slapped. He stands up abruptly, and Grantaire is tripping over his words, his tongue fat and useless in his mouth, trying to find a way to make Enjolras understand what he meant, but it’s too late. He hates him – if he didn’t before, he does now, and it’s the liquor’s fault. Well, it’s also his, but that’s okay, because Grantaire hates himself too, most days. “In that case I’ll just go,” Enjolras bites out, throwing back a withering look, eyes burning with fury. “I’d hate to be such a burden on anyone’s eyes.”

And then he stalks out the room and Grantaire lets him.

There’s a series of loud bangs and thumps and after a moment Enjolras comes back into the living room, red in the face and looking slightly scorned. “It appears,” he huffs. “That we have received roughly five feet of snow. And also the door is maybe frozen stuck.”

And then he stomps past Grantaire into the kitchen where he can hear Courfeyrac’s assurances and Combeferre’s concern.

Courfeyrac comes back out a bit later and walks past him to the door where the same series of thumps and bangs can be heard, before coming back out into the living room. “Yep,” he clasps his hands together. “Frozen solid. More beer anyone?”

Combeferre puts this notion to bed rather quickly, and tucks in Courfeyrac with it. Enjolras still hasn’t been seen, and Grantaire is hoping that if he tries hard enough he can actually melt into this couch and stop existing as a human being. Wouldn’t that be the life?

Enjolras comes in a bit later though, interrupting Grantaire’s ever growing cloud of self-hatred and pity. It’s a vicious cycle. He doesn’t say anything, just plops himself down onto the armchair and studiously avoids eye contact. “You know,” he says tersely, a few tense moments later. “If my face bothers you so much you should’ve just avoided the meetings all together. Don’t know why you even bother coming at all; it’s not as if you’ve ever played any significant part in the group.”

He’s not going to lie: it stings. He can’t think of anything to say, anything that could fix his ineloquent blunders – but it’s not like it could change anything even if he could. This is what Enjolras really thinks – that wouldn’t change even if he knew that Grantaire has been madly in love with him for the past year. That is to say, if he doesn’t know already. The idea makes him sick to his stomach – he can deal with everyone else knowing. But not Enjolras. He’s been humiliated too much already.           

Combeferre saves him from putting another foot in his mouth, appearing with an extra set of thick blankets. The cold is settling in the house, despite the heating.

“Come on you two,” he says, herding them around the corridor and into a very small guest bedroom. It’s very small, with two twin side beds shoved in so close together they’re almost touching. They’re both fitted with sheets, though one looks recently slept in. Combeferre sets down the blankets on one bed and stifles a yawn with one hand.

“What’s this?” Grantaire and Enjolras demand in unison.

Combeferre gives them tired but amused looks. “It’s become apparent no one can leave yet. Not until morning at least. Go to sleep. You need the rest.”

Both Grantaire and Enjolras are ready to protest but he moves forward to drop a kiss on Enjolras’ forehead and claps a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Good night you two. Try not to make too much noise before ten a.m. Courfeyrac might get murderous. You both know where the bathroom is. If you need anything, Grantaire, ask Enjolras, he’ll know.”

Without another word he strides out of the room and clicks the door shut behind him. They both stare at the closed door for a second before turning to each other. Enjolras – for perhaps the first time since Grantaire’s known him – looks perplexed.

Finally, because he’s tired and still a little drunk, Grantaire huffs out a breath and strips off his shirt. He’s working on his belt when Enjolras makes a noise of alarm.

“What’re you doing?” he squeaks, eyes widened. Grantaire would laugh if he weren’t so breathless.

“I’m sorry, do you normally sleep fully clothed?” he asks dryly. Enjolras just sets his jaw and – to Grantaire’s shock – begins stripping as well. He tries not to stare as Enjolras turns his back and pulls his sweater over his head in a fluid motion, dropping his pants in another.

Grantaire tries really, really hard not to stare.

Instead he focuses on steadying his breath, smoothing out the jagged edges as he finishes taking off his clothes and piling them onto the chest of drawers. He can’t bear to look over at Enjolras’ side of the room (although, considering how tiny the bedroom is, ‘Enjolras’ side’ is about a foot and a half away from him), not without running the risk of, oh, I don’t know, spontaneous combustion. Instead he takes unsteady steps towards the bed and shakes out the blanket, thinking about how chilly the air is on his bare legs (and not about how Enjolras’ bare legs are only a few inches away). He shakes out the blanket and waits for another one to fall out from its folds – and then shakes it again when one doesn’t. The noise he makes is embarrassingly distressed. Enjolras is there in a second. He can feel the warmth of him against his side even without touching him. Not for the first time, he laments Enjolras’ constant inability to register personal space.

 “What is it?”

Grantaire can hear the pinched frown in his voice without even looking at him. The blanket is luxuriously thick and fluffy – but it’s small and there’s only one.

“Um,” he manages.

Catching on, Enjolras takes a sharp breath and steps away from him. “I see.”

Grantaire closes his eyes and counts to ten before tossing the blanket onto Enjolras’ bed. “Here, you take it. I can manage one night without one.” It comes out dry and indifferent, which is incredible, considering Grantaire’s body is already starting to tremble from the cold leaking in from the windows and seeping through the walls.

Enjolras makes a derisive noise and tosses it back at him. When Grantaire looks at him in surprise he nearly dies on the spot. His face is but five inches away from him, and even in the dim light Grantaire can see the eyelashes brushing against the planes of his cheekbones, the pout of his pink mouth, right there for the taking –

 He looks away before he can do something stupid he might regret.

Enjolras, oblivious as ever, scowls. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s literally freezing – you’d die before morning. We can share.”

“No,” Grantaire says, desperation seeping into his voice. He has to make him understand. The blanket’s so small they’d have to sleep in the same bed, pressed into such small quarters Grantaire might just explode. “No, we really can’t.”

Enjolras pushes him back, eyes flashing in irritation. “We can and we will. We’re friends, if not much of them, and I think you can put up with being close to my ugly face for a few hours for the sake of your life. Don’t be an idiot, Grantaire.”

Grantaire shakes his head vigorously, not knowing what to object to first. “We’re not friends,” is all he can get out. _And ugly is a word that has never been able to be applied to you._

Enjolras recoils with a look that he might mistake for hurt, if it were anyone else. But it’s Enjolras, so it’s gone in a second. “I have always considered us friends. Friends who fight more often than others, but still friends.”

Grantaire barks out a bitter laugh. “You have never considered me anything other than a drunk you argue with sometimes at your precious meetings. It’s not as if I’ve ever played any significant part in the group, right? Your words, remember?”

Enjolras bites his lip, still looking angry, and it’s unfair how gone Grantaire is over him.

“I didn’t mean…” he stops and worries his lips more before shaking his head and continuing. “I always say things I mean in the heat of the moment that I don’t mean any time else. You always manage to get me angry and say cruel things.”

It’s not an apology, and Grantaire doesn’t take it as one.

“I can’t share a bed with you.”

Enjolras honest-to-god stomps his foot. It would be adorable if Grantaire didn’t feel like there was fire in his lungs. “You can and you will, Grantaire,” and his tone brokers no argument.

Enjolras crawls in first, pressing himself into a space against the wall, and Grantaire hesitates for a moment until exhaustion and cold seep into his bones and he crawls delicately in too, draping the blanket over them both.

Although he could have dropped dead a second ago, under the covers (which are spectacularly warm) he can barely manage to keep his eyes closed.

After a few minutes Enjolras sighs and turns to face his back. “Grantaire.”

He doesn’t respond, hoping that if he doesn’t, Enjolras will just assume he’s asleep and turn back around again.

“Grantaire, I know you’re awake,” he says plaintively, tugging on his arm. With a huff, Grantaire flips onto his back.

“What?” R says, wrapping the blanket a little closer to his body. He can feel the heat radiating from Enjolras, and it takes him every bit of will power not to press himself against him.

“You won’t stop fidgeting.”

“Sorry,” he whispers, even though there’s no one else there to hear them. He is sorry, really. He doesn’t want Enjolras frozen and exhausted tomorrow, not when he has plans with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “I’ll try to stop.”

Enjolras stiffens from his side of the bed. “Is my face so horrendous to you that you can’t even turn around and face me when we talk?” and there’s nothing soft and vulnerable in his voice – it’s all cruel and sharpened, and really, Grantaire has had enough.

With a noise of disparagement, he flips so that their noses are nearly brushing, grabbing Enjolras’ face between his hands. “You’re not ugly. You’re not even _plain_. Enjolras – _Enjolras, for Christ’s sake_ – when I told you it hurt to look at you I didn’t mean it in that way.”

His eyes soften, even if marginally, with a note of distrust and defiance still in his voice when he speaks. “Then what did you mean, Grantaire? Because I’m tired of fighting with you. Did you mean simply that you hate me? Because I can deal with that if I must –”

Grantaire surges forward and presses his lips against Enjolras’ before he can think about it. Enjolras mewls in surprise against his lips, but he doesn’t push him away. For a few desperate seconds, Grantaire thinks that this is a huge and terrible mistake, but before he can pull away, Enjolras fists his hair in his hands and _kisses him back_.

It’s over too soon, and then there are wondrous eyes and heaving chests and Grantaire can’t seem to stop running his thumb over Enjolras’ mouth, red and gaping.

“R,” he gasps. “ _Grantaire_.”

“Yes?” he says weakly because it’s all he can manage. The world seems to shake at the edges, slipping in and out of focus.

“R,” he just stammers, hands still fisted in his curls. “Grantaire, you kissed me.”

He can’t help it – he laughs, breathless and hysterical. “I did,” he breathes, and wouldn’t Eponine be proud? “I kissed you.”

“Did you – do you like me?” there’s incredulity tempered with hope in his voice and it makes Grantaire weak in the knees.

His heart melts. “You idiot. I love you – I’ve always loved you. I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day we met – how have you never known?”

“Oh,” he blinks, and Grantaire can see him turning that word, _love_ , over in his head, analyzing it from every angle, and wonders if he’s fucked up again, let too much out too early – but Enjolras just grins, wild and brilliant. “Can you do it again?”

Grantaire has never been good at saying no to him.

Xx

In the morning, Combeferre extracts himself from Courfeyrac’s splayed limbs and peeks out the window, careful not to let the weak sunlight disturb his blissfully snoring boyfriend. He hums in surprise when he sees that it had stopped snowing sometime during the night and someone had shoveled the apartment complex’s doorstep.

He goes to share the good news, as any good friend would, swinging open the door to the spare bedroom without thinking about it. “Enj, the snow – _argh_!”

Combeferre gets an eyeful of too many naked limbs for his liking and quickly closes the door, and can’t even be too bothered by the sheer amount of counseling he’ll have to have after this to get rid of the trauma, because _it’s about goddamned time._

 

**Author's Note:**

> PS: find me on tumblr c: (connorwvalsh)


End file.
